


If I wasn't me (I can be sure I'd wanna be)

by feyrelay



Series: DIEU (Daddy Issues Extended Universe) [8]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alcohol, Breeding Kink, Clubbing, Daddy Kink, Drawing, Dubious Science, Established Relationship, F/F, Fluff and Smut, Implied Mpreg, In Public, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Marking, Mentions of Rape/Non-con Outside Main Pairing, Prompt Fill, Rimming, Switching, Tony Stark Does What He Wants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-01-29
Packaged: 2019-10-18 23:13:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17590220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feyrelay/pseuds/feyrelay
Summary: A story in four vignettes depicting the sexy antics of established relationship!Peter and Tony, now that they've settled into themselves.Originally titled Twinkle, Home, Kindling, and Ginger. (A re-post of one of my Yule prompt fills; I've decided to host them separately to make them more accessible.)CNTW = passing references to HYDRA-related noncon re: Bucky Barnes.





	1. Twinkle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LeafyGreenQueen773](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeafyGreenQueen773/gifts), [s_midnite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/s_midnite/gifts).



> Content: Warning for alcohol, mild D/s, public play/voyeurism, daddy kink, really light bondage
> 
> This fic also has its own playlist, here: https://open.spotify.com/user/1urx036e5iqb0ioukr2bj8yih/playlist/6IL8YtjpHNAz2Kp3XMQ1ZB?si=SwHz7JHtQOGqlPhKnbkFJQ

Peter kind of hates this club.

It’s everything Tony likes; it’s glamorous inside, sleek and shining, and expensive. Everyone there is beautiful and ageless and probably rich (or rich-adjacent, like Peter), and Peter is grateful, he really is, but it’s all a little… much.

In the three-and-a-half years that they’ve been committed, Tony has gotten infinitely better about these grand gestures. He does them less and less, understanding (perhaps for the first time in his life) that small, daily doses of love are infinitely preferable to most people over being ignored and then being spoiled in an overblown manner when that blows up.

Peter’s proud of him for that, and he knows the only reason Tony has dragged them to the newest, most exclusive (and most exclusively queer) nightclub in the city is because it’s Peter’s twenty-first birthday celebration.

He tries not to be disappointed as they seat themselves at the bar. He’d let Tony dress him, and the oddly silky, waffled weave of his short-sleeved shirt is a little cold. He supposes Tony probably picked the outfit for late summer, when his birthday actually is, and the way the fabric is thinly woven to stay opaque in overhead lighting but go see-through in the side-angled, silhouetting lights of the club… it probably would have been fine in early August. However, Peter had been laid out from a mission gone wrong for his birthday, and then before they knew it, his birthday celebration had been pushed nearly to Christmas. That’s what happens when you’re a power couple with a mutual penchant for procrastination.

Anyway, Peter tries not to hate the way the chill and the slide of his shirt along his chest are making his nipples hard. He tries not to hate that the champagne Tony is insisting they start with costs as much as May’s rent. He tries not to hate that Tony just gave up his seat at the bar to a very pretty redheaded woman, who’d walked up looking jilted but who is now eyeing the billionaire speculatively where he stands, chest pressed to Peter’s back as Peter stares into the bubbles in his glass.

The music is too loud, and Peter can feel the reverb in the heavy, chain-like necklace Tony had picked for him, something he’d never have thought to wear. His pants feel ridiculous too, too trendy with the way the soft, charcoal denim falls loose over his hips and legs to accent their thinness, cut straight all the way to his thick-soled boots and secured to his body against the rage of gravity only by a stretchy, designer belt.

Tony, bless him, is in a tight, red button-up shirt, sleeves rolled above too many bracelets, and tight black-on-black jeans that have thorns embroidered up the sides. Peter can’t decide who looks more like a power bottom and who looks more like a service top, and for some reason, he hates that too.

He reaches back and steals Tony’s sunglasses without looking, just to piss the other man off.

There’s a puff of breath against his neck and ear and then-

“Why are you being such a brat,  _brat_? It’s your goddamned birthday.”

“No, it’s not,” Peter huffs, but leans back into Tony’s warmth all the same. “It’s fucking December and I’m freezing. You’d think with the prices in here, they could afford to heat the place.”

“I’ll warm you up,” his lover promises, aiming for teasing to cut the tension, as he steals back the funky shades. However, Peter feels him make a gesture to a club employee, from somewhere behind and to the right of Peter’s shoulder. The way the guy scuttles off, presumably to the thermostat, is vaguely satisfying; Peter makes to turn around in his seat to apologize for his brattiness. The redhead to his right is no longer interested, looking at her phone instead.

Tony’s left hand grips Peter’s shoulder, signaling the younger man to stay exactly where he is. They both know that Tony isn’t strong enough to hold him there, and yet.

Once the message is received and Peter freezes, Tony leans forward, smoothing his hand down Peter’s arm and pushing them both further into the bar, so that the older man’s left hand can pick up Peter’s glass of champagne. He deftly brings it to Peter’s mouth and whispers, “Don’t swallow,” against the shell of the younger man’s ear, before he tilts the beverage into Pete’s mouth.

Peter obeys, doesn’t swallow or choke, and feels the bubbles of the drink twinkle around his teeth and against the inside of his cheeks.

Tony’s right hand enters Peter’s field of vision briefly before it cups the smaller man’s chin and gently tilts Peter’s head back before brushing his lips with the thumb. Peter opens his mouth, careful to neither spill nor swallow, and Tony dumps a pair of palmed cufflinks into the alcohol pooled there.

“Sanitize those for me, mmm’kay? Been rattling around in my pocket ever since I rolled my sleeves up.”

The bartender is paying them no notice, too busy serving others at the 360-degree bar, but there’s a lesbian couple seated across the space from them watching raptly. The older, more butch one has a distinct twinkle in her eye, and her blonde partner keeps smoothing her own satin-gloved hands along her exposed biceps, as if she’s self-stimulating just to stay even-keeled. She looks fucking delighted.

Peter blushes at the attention and he knows Tony can feel the heat of that blush where it’s pouring down the back of his neck, against his one-time mentor’s palm which rests there.

“She’s watching you, pretty boy,” Tony mocks, not even bothering to lower his voice.

Peter can’t talk, so he rolls his neck as if working out a kink, and hopes Tony can hear the tinkling of the platinum cufflinks against his teeth. He breathes through his nose, quiet. The music’s been turned down a little and the air is warming up. Tony must have known it was too loud, in addition to too cold, in here.

It feels nice that all his former complaints, spoken and unspoken, are steadily being dealt with, but… hmmm.

Despite the fact that he was just wishing a moment ago that their outward appearances made their roles more apparent, this… show… was not what he’d had in mind to remedy that.

However, Peter’s not complaining. He could, he knows. He could safeword out with three quick taps to anywhere on Tony’s body, and the other man probably would tell Peter to spit the alcohol out and not even pick up the jewelry before he’d whisk them both out of there. But… well.

It’s a little exciting, being watched. It’s  _very_  exciting, not knowing what he wants and letting Tony decide.

Maybe Peter kind of doesn’t hate this club after all.

He’s brought out of his floating thoughts as Tony whispers again, from behind, “Hmmm, maybe I need to give baby something to jingle-jangle. A rattle. I barely heard my cufflinks against those pretty, baby teeth, and you can't rattle that chain on your neck; that's for me to touch and you to sit there and look pretty in. Got it?”

The older man angles into Peter’s side so they can see each other. There’s room now that the redhead has left again. Tony transfers most of his bracelets to Peter’s thinner wrists with ease and says, voice still tinged with faux-mocking, “There you go. Happy birthday, baby.”

And if Tony flicks open the leather cuff that newly decorates Peter’s left wrist and then snaps it into the matching one on the right, well.

The blonde across the way seems happy about it, closing her eyes as her partner smiles into her drink, their hands linked.

Tony orders a dirty martini with lemon and not his usual scotch-on-the-rocks, and Peter  _knows in his bones_  it’s just to procure a nice wide-rimmed, high-stemmed glass that Pete can spit into if he needs it. Peter would never spit into scotch, he’s not a  _heathen_.

Tony takes one sip of the drink, kisses Peter’s cheek so he gets a whiff of the brine, sets the drink down  _directly_  in front of his young lover (in the circle that Peter’s hands naturally make, being bound at the wrists), and moves back into position behind him.

Peter thinks this is going to be a game of anticipation and waiting, but he’s on a roll when it comes to being wrong tonight, because as Tony slides a hand around Peter’s hip, the stupid belt snaps undone.

Tony discreetly pulls at the loosened waistband of Peter’s jeans to give himself room and rests a thumb right at the top of Peter’s ass crack. The older man hooks his scrubby chin over Peter’s shoulder and then carefully  _tap-tap-taps_  at Peter’s tailbone. He’s watching for the answering call, for his confirmation that no, Peter has not had a stroke and forgotten their long-standing, non-verbal safeword.

Peter taps his own blunt nails against the stem of the martini glass, lightly but clear to be seen. He lets his tongue push the cufflinks in front of his teeth for safe-keeping and tilts his head back onto Tony’s shoulder to blink up at the man. He even bats his eyelashes, hoping he’ll win permission to take a little, tiny swallow. Just to help with the saliva build-up in his mouth.

“Go ahead,” Tony says mildly, though his eyes are dark and glittering behind the red-tinted lenses.

Peter takes the tiniest swallow before he lets the cufflinks float back into the main part of his mouth. Every time they touch a particular molar on the back-left side, he gets an electric  _zing_  up his spine. He wonders if he has a cavity there. Maybe spider-genes don’t heal teeth because they’re not pincers. Regardless, the pain is good-bad, like a partially faded bruise.

“You’re doing so good, Pete. Such a good boy,” Tony breathes, not letting him float too far away. Peter shivers at the praise, first, and then some more as Tony starts letting his thumb slip down into the sweat of Peter’s crack. He’s not even going very far down, no intent there to breach the younger man, just letting Peter know that if he wanted to, he could.

Peter is hard as a rock.

He knows Rhodey or Steve or even Howard must have taught Tony Morse code once upon a time and that the man is a genius with a mind like a steel trap, so Peter carefully taps out the letters D-A-D-D-Y with his nails on the base of the glass.

Quick to a fault, Tony immediately hums and says, “Yes, darling?”

D-A-N-C-E. P-L-E-A-S-E.

“Well, since you asked so sweetly,” he replies, and pulls Peter up from his seat even as he drains and sets the martini glass aside, winking at the two women that make up their audience. The blonde giggles into her gloves as Tony makes a point of refastening the belt that hitches Peter’s pants where they’re meant to sit.

He doesn’t do anything about Peter’s bracelets, though, as they head under the twinkling lights of the dancefloor, but that’s no big deal since Peter could shred them at any time if he so chose, and because it gives Peter an excuse to hook his arms around Tony’s neck as they dance. He even pops his shoulders a few times, showing off his hyper-flexibility, to turn gracefully and keep his flipped hands pressed to the nape of Tony’s neck even as he backs into him with his ass. With every movement, the cufflinks rattle in his skull, lighting up the nerves in his clenched jaw, and the ache goes straight to his dick in sick, little jolts.

The older man is hard too, and he whistles low in Peter’s ear every time Peter flexes on him using that particular power, flinching minutely every time Peter’s shoulder joints strain.

“God, make me feel old and decrepit, why don’t you?” he grounds out as Peter grinds his backside into his former mentor, shameless. Pete’s shirt is transparent in this light.

The song’s about to end, he can feel it, so the spiderling just turns the right way back ‘round and grins with his mouth closed. When Tony laughs at his ridiculous expression, Peter presses forward as he pulls on the other man’s neck with his bindings and spills everything he’s got into Tony’s mouth instead, careful to keep hold of the man’s jewelry with his teeth.

It’s probably mostly gross, saliva with just a bit of champagne, but Tony’s had worse from Peter before, and isn’t that an apropos thought?

“You can blow me in the bathroom if it’ll make you feel young again,” Peter offers selflessly, voice a bit unsteady after the ordeal of the night. He slips the cufflinks delicately into Tony’s breast pocket and steals the sunglasses back again.

“Deal, you fucking brat.”


	2. Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content: Warning for some voyeuristic themes, snowballing, daddy kink and D/s undertones (mild), light bondage, and 'unsafe' sex in the confines of an established relationship
> 
> Also, handwavy-as-hell science.

Of course, Peter deserves better than power plays and a sloppy blowjob in a club bathroom for his birthday, no matter how belated.

When Peter’s caught his breath, skull sore from banging back against the cold tile of the wall, Tony helps him zip back up and then stands to spill the twenty-one-year-old’s own come back into his mouth. It’s payback for earlier, with the champagne, and Peter moans into it as Tony’s thumb presses firmly into his gums through the thin skin of Peter’s cheek, holding him still.

It’s the kind of club that has a bathroom attendant, whom Tony had promptly ordered out of the room (“Unless you wanted him to stay and watch, baby boy?”). The put-upon man, stoic and silent, comes back into the bathroom as soon as Tony flips the lock open, and hands Tony a warm towel. He showily wipes his mostly-clean-anyway chin with it while all up in Peter’s grill, pressing the matter meanly in a way that makes the younger man’s stomach flip.  _Fucker_.

Speaking of which.

“Can we go home?” Peter says plaintively.

“Can we go home, what?” Tony prompts, folding the towel and dabbing at the sweat on Peter’s temples and upper lip.

Peter’s eyes flick to the bathroom attendant, who is staring at the gleam of a faucet as if he’s never seen it before. “Can we go home… please?”

Tony raises an eyebrow, tosses the towel in a nearby receptacle, and smooths his thumbs over Peter’s hipbones as he shifts to stand between Peter and the attendant. His body angles just so, and blocks the man from Peter’s line of sight. He waits.

Peter takes a deep, shuddering breath, and tries, “Can we please go home… daddy?”

“Of course, baby. It’s well past your bedtime.”

Tony gives Peter a moment to collect himself and digs his wallet out. He leaves two fifty-dollar bills on the counter of the bathroom as they sweep out. Peter doesn’t see it, so much as  _sense_  it, when Tony mouths a “sorry” at the poor, beleaguered club employee on the way.

It’s that, more than anything, that warms Peter through on their way home. It’s the little things, and the little ways Tony’s changed from his old, inconsiderate self, and not the big scenes that make Peter melt. He doesn’t miss the way the coat check girl has his coat ready, the royal blue wool one that Tony had had lined with heather-grey hoodie fabric just for Peter’s comfort. She also hands Tony his black leather moto jacket and gloves and it’s all just so. They hadn’t even worn coats to get there, which Peter had found extremely odd given it’s December in New York. He’d been played, been  _played with_ , just to get him shivering in the club, just to get his nipples hard, just to get him thinking that Tony cared less about Peter’s comfort than about Peter looking pretty and about following the plan of the evening originally meant for August ( _when nothing could have been further from the truth!_  he thinks) and the controlled cruelty of it all really gets Peter right in the gut, in the best way possible. Of course he was primed for this, of course Tony wasn’t going to let him freeze on the way home, of course he’d had their coats sent ahead of time, and of course Tony knew he’d hate the club and act bratty about it and want to be put in his place and, god almighty. Peter feels so  _known_. So loved.

He gets blissed out on the feeling and on the warm air blasting from the driverless car’s climate system. Peter loses that last bit of himself in the way Tony has him bundled into his side, right hand scritching over Peter’s scalp and left hand rubbing extra bits of warmth into Peter’s knuckles. He dozes, and he blames that for the fact that he doesn’t realize they’re headed back to Albany, to the compound, and not to their usual Manhattan apartment.

Tony wakes him and bundles him through the short blast of cold until they can reach the elevator bank and step back into FRIDAY’s warm embrace. The older man nudges him into a hot bath shortly thereafter, letting him have a moment alone to quickly scrub away the remnants of club sweat with a modicum of privacy. When Tony returns, he’s got the teak tub tray laden with two steaming mugs of hot chocolate, one with whipped cream and one without, as well as a single blueberry muffin done up like a cupcake, maple-flavored glaze dripping down onto the golden-foiled paper. There’s no birthday candle in it because, well, his birthday was technically in August, and Peter hates wax touching his food. However, there  _are_ vanilla-scented candles tucked into the corners down at the other end of the tub and the room’s light has gone golden and flickering. Everything’s perfect, but Peter’s got a question.

“Why are we here, instead of home?” he asks, digging into his muffin.

Tony hesitates from his perch on the little wooden stepping stool that Pepper and May’s twin daughters, Morgan and Maria, use when they come to visit their biological dad at the compound.

“Wellll,” Tony says slowly, “…there’s another gift involved.” The older man gulps down his hot chocolate nervously.

Peter squints up at his lover from the bath. Being in water always wakes him up, no matter how cozy the temperature, and he’s suddenly suspicious of Tony’s cagey demeanor.

“What did you do?” he says, resigned but pleased.

Tony shrugs, smile slipping up sideways along his jaw. “Finish your bath and find out.” With that, he slips around the corner to use the separate shower stall, but he must not be up to anything too wicked because he barely blinks at Peter for powering through the muffin and hot beverage just so he can join him. Peter, suddenly reminded by Tony’s nakedness that he himself is one ahead on the night’s orgasm count, tries to press the older man back into the wall of the shower as a prelude to evening the score, but Tony’s wet hands slip and grip Peter’s biceps, pulling him back, and he says, “Gift first. It’s combo belated birthday and Christmas.”

They finish rinsing off and Peter gets lovingly bullied into some flannel pajamas that are far too big for him. Something’s up, but he knows he won’t find out until after they do the gift thing, so he just inquires patiently, “What did you even get me? There’s nothing I need.” He doesn’t bother to do up the buttons on the pajama top; it’s warm up here on the top floor.

Tony foists a robe and slippers onto him too, though, and he sees why when they head to the elevator and go down to the lab. Fri keeps it much colder on this level than she does in the penthouse.

Once they enter through the glass door separating the lab from the hallway, Tony answers his earlier question as if there had never been a pause. “There may be nothing you need, but there  _is_  something you asked for.”

Peter’s brow furrows. He tries to think back to Tony asking him what he wanted this year for his birthday and for Christmas. He vaguely remembers being asked sometime in June, and Peter had, fresh off a  _Miss Congeniality_ marathon with MJ and Ned, quipped that all he wanted was “world peace”.

( _I have successfully privatized world peace_ , he remembers hearing on TV, once, in a now-familiar voice.)

“What did you do?” he asks again, eyes wide and serious this time.

Tony smiles, like earlier, though this one is bright and open and not hidden. He leads Peter further into the lab, where there are three tables covered with blueprints and bits of tech.

“This,” Tony explains, beginning with the first table, “…is the arc-powered desalination machine. I mean, you did the reverse osmosis version work yourself, I just scaled it up for this application and worked out the kinks. Happy birthday!”

“What application did you scale it up for?” Peter breathes, fascinated.

“Well, that’s what our second set of tech is. Pete, meet the desalination overflow byproduct hydroelectricity plant…” Tony says, a bit sheepish. “I had a lot of time on my hands in August when you were laid out for those few weeks after the team-up with Deadpool, Venom, and Brock.”

“Those guys are just not my speed,” Peter admits. His bruises had had bruises, super-healing or no. “So it, what, uses the runoff from the reverse osmosis on the first machine to…,” he focuses hard for a few minutes, trying to follow Tony’s thought process as it’s written on the papers. “It uses the runoff to make electricity which powers a hyper-efficient robotic assembly line that makes arc reactors, creating exponentially more power output than input?”

Tony claps his hands and exclaims, “Merry Christmas!” He seems pleased that Peter is following along with his genius.

Peter wraps himself up in Tony’s arms, snuffling into the juncture of his neck. “You’re such a good man.”

Tony wrinkles his nose at the praise, but he’s smiling. “Brilliant is what people normally say, not ‘good’,” he remarks.

“Almost anyone can be brilliant at something, if they apply themselves,” Peter shrugs without dislodging their embrace. He looks up at Tony and beams, “Only you could be this good and kind, could give so much.”

Tony shifts Peter in his arms so he can press their foreheads together. He murmurs, “You taught me.”

Peter closes his eyes against the emotion in those words, and just for a distraction, a diffusion even, he asks, “What’s the third thing?”

Tony pulls back and says, excited, “Now that is the cool one.”

He pulls Peter closer to examine the design and beta test results. Peter tries to follow, surmises it’s agricultural, but it’s too complex. He waits for Tony to explain.

“It’s a planting frame. It embeds into soil or sand and hooks up to an arc reactor. You can use the nutrient-rich sludge from the desalination to get seedlings started, or traditional seed starters, I guess. Then the frame emits different levels of light and even sometimes lasers to help maintain plants and take cuttings for re-seeding. If you follow a specific crop rotation and get really technical, you can re-enrich the soil naturally and even use specific wavelengths of light to elicit specific organic compounds from crops to fall and keep the ground within the frame fertile.”

Peter gapes, jaw dropped. ( _Joy to the world_.)

Tony blushes, which he hardly ever does, and says, “Happy early Valentine’s Day, I guess? I think I’ve earned a break after this one, so I think I’ll take a sabbatical from innovating for, oh, a year and just stay home. I can help you with your coursework to keep my brain from turning to mush.”

“World peace,” Peter says under his breath, awed. ( _And heaven and nature sing, and heaven and nature sing._ )

“Close as I could get,” Tony mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “A world that’s not hungry, thirsty, or underpowered should be fairly peaceful, I hope.”

Peter pushes Tony unceremoniously toward the elevator, takes him to bed, hopes he can pilfer some of Tony’s genius, either by it rubbing off or via a dirty ‘direct injection’. He pops his shoulder joints for the umpteenth time that night and ties the overlong sleeves of his pajama shirt to each other, behind himself and tight to the headboard. Peter begs Tony to fuck him raw, warm on their king-sized mattress with its heated mattress pad, snuggled with love and bruised with love. Kissed with love and railed into the sheets with love. Known and cherished and named and unmade and unmanned and wrecked with it.

( _Repeat, repeat the sounding joy._ )


	3. Kindling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content: featuring top!Peter/bottom!Tony, weird-ass web bondage, body marking, powerlessness, FRIDAY the kink-enabling voyeur, pet names, praise kink, one instance of biting, rimming, and empty threats of dry/unprepped penetration, unsafe sex in the confines of an established relationship
> 
> HOWEVER: this fic also features the WORST INHUMANITY KNOWN TO MANKIND, which is the horrific destruction of vintage selvedge denim via soldering pen, so LOCK ME UP AND THROW AWAY THE KEY, I mean it, how dare I?

When the web capsules hit the hard floor of the lab, they crunch and crackle like the start of a good fire.

Peter, intent on cleaning up the ones closest to him, doesn’t hear the glass door of the lab swing open, but looks up at the sound of footsteps a second too late, spidey senses getting a secondhand tingle of the dread rolling off Tony. The older man has stepped, barefoot no less, directly onto one of the spots of mess and, overcorrecting and swinging his next step wide, had managed to hit another with his other foot.

“Fuck!”

In summary, the soles of Tony’s feet are now glued to floor in the center of the lab, forcing his legs into a wide, inverted V-shape.

Peter presses his face into Tony’s knee, from his spot on the floor, and tries not to laugh.

Tony grabs onto Pete’s shoulder with one hand, for balance, and rakes his hand through Peter’s waves with the other. “It’s not funny! Get me out of this.”

Peter flashes back to the first time they met, several years gone, now.  _Get me out of this_ , Tony (Mr. Stark, then) had groused, hand webbed to Peter’s doorknob. It had been another couple of years before Peter realized that Tony had never intended to leave Peter’s bedroom without getting what he came for. The proof? Tony had touched the doorknob, telegraphing everything and giving Peter a chance to stop him, without even unlocking the lock first.

Oh, how far they had come.

Peter gets to his feet as Tony continues to huff, waggling his eyebrows as if that’s going to make Peter go faster. Peter steps around the trapped man to get to the skin-safe web solvents, asking, “Why are you barefoot anyway?”

Tony mumbles.

“Didn’t catch that, marble mouth,” Peter teases, stopping to rub at his lover’s shoulders.

“I was looking for my slippers,” Tony explains. “I think I left them in here after you dragged me so unceremoniously back to bed last night.”

Peter grins at the recent memory, experiencing a sharp flush of arousal as he remembers how he’d thanked Tony for his astounding Christmas gifts, and later he’ll blame that for what happens next. Peter steps backward, missing the glint of web fluid on the floor due to the fall of Tony’s shadow over it, and gets himself stuck, standing directly behind his former mentor.

He bends forward slightly and rests his forehead between Tony’s shoulder blades, sighing in defeat.

“Really, Parker?”

It’s Peter’s turn to mumble uselessly.

“Can you reach the solvent?” Tony asks in follow-up.

Peter cranes his neck trying to look over his shoulder, but knows he’s too far. “No, I can just barely reach the mini soldering pen and this grease pencil thing you left out on the bench over here. There’s my lunch tray still, but I had a salad so there’s no knife… Can you reach my web shooters, the ones I was working on? Then I can web the solvent.”

Tony bends forward to stretch for Peter’s workspace, but it’s no use. He manages to snag the stool Peter had been sitting on, and that’s about it.

Peter does get a nice eyeful of Tony’s firm ass in those old, ratty work-jeans, though.

As Tony pulls the seat toward himself, for something to lean on, Peter asks, “Is anyone else here? We can get FRIDAY to call for help.”

But Tony shakes his head, “No. I made sure everyone was cleared out because I knew you’d be keyed up from the club last night. And, I don’t want to ask anyone to come rushing back; it’s a holiday weekend.”

Peter just hums speculatively, pushing his hand underneath the hem of Tony’s Black Sabbath tee from behind. He runs his hand up the planes of Tony’s back, just to feel the warmth of the other man’s skin. Problem-solving with his partner always turns Peter on.

“You okay back there, babe?” Tony says, and yeah, Peter’s just fine.

“Fri,” he calls, loving the way the muscles of Tony’s back jump under his fingertips, due to the sudden note of command in Peter’s voice, “…let’s turn the heat up in here. Looks like we’re going to be stuck for a while.”

And with that, he starts helping Tony out of his shirt. The older man squawks and sputters at the shift in tone, so Peter makes sure to fold the vintage tee carefully and set it next to his lunch tray. Then he taps three times, measured, on Tony’s shoulder blade.

The other man lets out a shuddering breath and then brings an arm back to wrap around the back of his own neck. The fingers tap there, at the nape where Peter can see, three times, and Peter smiles.  Tony’s other hand comes up and he laces his fingers there, hooked behind his own neck, elbows and biceps up.

Peter likes the picture it makes of the older man’s back, still fit and toned, so he leans and snags the black china marker from the workbench. He checks that it’s marked non-toxic; it is.

“Keep your hands still,” he breathes against Tony’s skin, and he draws back for a better vantage point to mark a little star right over the bone of Tony’s left shoulder blade. Pleased, he urges Tony forward to lean on the stool. This way, Peter’s not the one who has to strain himself in order to more effectively mark up Tony’s skin.

Sometimes he forgets how to dom, okay?

“What are you drawing?” his lover asks, a smile in his voice.

“Hmmm, dunno if I should tell you,” Peter returns as he adds a few more stars and draws a full moon on Tony’s right shoulder. Then he starts on a tree that will take up most of the man’s back. “Maybe I should make you guess, get that curiosity up.”

Tony whines a little, uncharacteristic but sweet, and Peter likes that very much.

He continues, “Maybe I’ll make you choose later, between coming and knowing what I’ve marked you with… for most people the choice would be too easy, but you just hate not knowing things, don’t you, my big, silly puppy?”

Tony’s head drops forward, but he keeps his hands in place, so Peter keeps doodling. He crouches down a bit to carefully ink a dog howling at the full moon, right along the plane of Tony’s lower back, on the flank. Peter’s heels pop out of the simple slip-on shoes he wears around the house, at the stretch, but he ignores it.

“ _Christ_ ,” Tony bites out, “…who would have thought the kidney area would be an erogenous zone?”

“Hush, be a good boy,” Peter shushes, and digs in the soft point of the marker, right next to one of Tony’s lumbar vertebrae. He was going to draw there eventually, and from his close-up vantage point, he gets to be gratified by the way the sudden pain makes Tony’s left ass cheek twitch.

Peter latches onto that twitch with his teeth, and lets his incisors scrape and jar along the weave and ridges of the old denim like the slow, rattling pull of a lift chain up the first big hill of a roller coaster. A loose thread  _snaps_  against his teeth like a barking dog, or the first crisp crack of kindling. Tony can’t hold back his moan as Peter noses along his back pocket.

“Art class gonna be over soon enough for you to fuck me before the new year, kid?” he quips.

Peter reaches up between the other man’s legs, knowing the odd angle will catch him off-guard, and grabs firmly at Tony’s package. “It’s cute how you think I’m on your schedule, here,” he says sweetly as Tony inhales a wrecked breath at the manhandling. He blows the breath out when Peter spanks lightly at the older man’s balls. Before Peter can be interrupted again, he catches the AI’s attention.

“FRIDAY, activate the Frankly My Dear Protocol; please disregard any other complaints Mr. Stark might have, unless you see him tap anywhere three times in succession.”

“Yes, boss!” their girl chirps, addressing Peter. Then, “Mr. Stark, you have a seven-second window to override the adoption of the protocol. Silence throughout that time will be interpreted by my programming as enthusiastic consent, as your vitals and my feed show you are neither gagged nor under any extreme duress.”

Tony takes a cleansing breath but doesn’t say another word, not even after his window elapses and Peter returns his attention to him, explaining, “I’ll fuck you when I’m done making you pretty for me and not a moment before. If you guess what the picture is, I’ll even be nice and ask one of the suits to go get us some lube. Otherwise, eh…we’ll just have to make do…” he trails off, enjoying the fact that he’s the only one who can see the oil cruet (and matching vinegar), handy on the nearby lunch tray, from his earlier salad. Peter wonders if Tony will safeword at the idea of being taken dry, not that Peter would actually do it.

Just to check in, he straightens up and draws a question mark on the back of Tony’s left hand, and then cranes up to kiss at the knuckles of Tony’s laced fingers. They loosen minutely, relaxing, and Peter tells him, “You can let your hands go, now.”

Peter watches as Tony clocks the mark on his left hand, and he uses the very same to reach back for the marking pencil. Peter hands it to him, pressing his lips into his shoulder and leaning far enough forward that he can catch the edge of Tony’s smile as the man awkwardly draws a crooked smiley face on his own right hand. He hands the pencil back to Peter and then re-laces his fingers, so Peter can see.

  _Game on_ , Peter thinks as he finishes petting at Tony’s stomach, and pops the button on the larger man’s jeans. Slight problem, though; Tony’s stance is too wide for the denim to be pushed down very far.

Peter trades the marking pencil for the high-powered, narrow-nosed soldering pen. He’s grateful Tony left it out on the bench. “Do you love these jeans more than you want me right now?”

“Fuck no,” Tony snorts with his hands tight on the edge of the stool, and Peter carefully burns down the outseams of the pants, staying steady to avoid catching his lover’s skin. He has to step out of his shoes (which are still stuck to the floor) to get the job done, but Tony’s eyes are closed and his breathing is shallow at the methodical treatment, at the barely-there risk of being burnt. Peter doubts he’ll notice how easily-cured their ‘predicament’ really is.

Turns out the older man is going commando today, anyway, so Peter can’t really say who’s been playing whom.

Once Tony is naked, Peter jams his feet back into his own immobilized shoes and says, “You have three guesses as to the drawing, smart boy, and then you’re getting fucked stupid either way.”

He grabs the black marking tool again and re-outlines the tree, just to give Tony a hint. It’s meant to be a deciduous species with five branches, not a conifer, so he knows it’s not easy.

“Uh… a weird hand?” Tony guesses, voice uncertain.

Peter leans forward to press his mouth sweetly to a bare spot on Tony’s back, reaching around and sighing to fake his lover out. He wraps his hand around Tony’s length, feels its heat and hardness, and breathes, as if the game is up, “Awwww.”

He allows the older man’s muscles to un-tense for just a moment, before he lets go and adds, “Nope!”

Tony grunts a laugh and waits for Peter’s next hint. The younger man goes back to the black spot where he dug in next to the spine earlier, and uses that as a starting point to draw a ragged outline around the tree, one that reaches up to the full-dark sky of Tony’s shoulders. His artwork is really coming together, telling the story of a tree that’s caught fire just from the hint of a spark, bark going up like so much kindling in a conflagration that celebrates the full moon above. The loyal hound watches the flames, howling but powerless to put out the consuming fire licking its way up the tree, and unwilling to bound away to safety.

The outline of the flames must feel confusing on the skin of Tony’s back, because he guesses next, somewhat hopelessly, “A flower?”

Peter snorts, but then again, Tony’s outfit last night at the club had been rose-themed, so he supposes anything goes. “No.”

He adds one last finishing touch, a storm cloud across the expanse between Tony’s shoulder blades. He’s decided maybe it wasn’t just a spark that started the fire, after all, but a bolt from the blue. “Last guess.”

Tony leans so far forward to rest his arms and forehead on the seat Peter had been using earlier, that Peter feels totally justified in dropping the marker, crouching down, and pressing a sloppy wet kiss to Tony’s entrance. He gets a shout and a stuttering breath for his trouble, and he mocks Tony a little, “Do you even care what it is?”

“Normally, I would… but not at the moment,” Tony pants.

“That’s what I thought,” Peter huffs, and goes back to licking at his partner’s rim. He’s content to do so for several minutes, until his jaw aches with it, enjoying the tremble of exertion in Tony’s thighs and the flutter against his tongue. Pete blisses out providing this service, gets tunnel vision for a bit, and when he comes back Tony is muttering nonsense under his breath. Pete grabs the marker from the floor and puts it behind his ear, using the back of his other forearm to wipe his chin.

“An upside-down rocket ship, a splatted ice cream cone, a tower with turrets, a map of the subway system, a constellation, a weird house, a trident pitchfork fuckin’ thing, a five-pronged dick, a bunch of churros, I-don’t-fucking-know, a goddamned tree on fire…,” he’s breathing, desperate.

Peter can’t believe he guessed it, but he straightens up and snaps his fingers next to Tony’s ear anyway, says, “Hey! You wanna get dicked down that bad, huh puppy? Wasted your last guess on a bunch of nonsense, just to get it over with; bet you don’t even care if I burn you raw and dry like firewood.”

“Don’t care, don’t care, just please, Pete-” comes the answering litany of pleading. Tony has straightened up again and put his hands back on his neck, trying to be good so he can get what he wants.

Peter grins and goes for the olive oil, same as he’d had on his salad for lunch. There’s a joke in there somewhere, but Peter doesn’t make it. He wants to shock Tony and he pours the slick substance over his hand and then pets at Tony’s hole, testing the edge of him.

The older man’s muscles have gone almost totally slack and relaxed, realizing from the touch of oil that he’s not about to be brutalized even though he was just begging for it, that of course of course of course Peter’s gonna take such good care of him. Duh.

The thorough tongue-fucking probably also helped. It’s enough for Peter, so he slicks up with the oil and presses into his lover in one long, protracted, punishing movement. Tony hisses, so Peter stays still for a moment. He pulls the marker from behind his ear and signs his name below his masterpiece, right across Tony’s ass, as he waits. “Alright, love?”

“Better than,” Tony admits, squirming at the feel of Peter’s signature, and Peter’s long, thin cock. “It’s just been a long time.”

Peter hums, puts his hands over Tony’s clasped ones on the back of the taller man’s neck, and leans back until just the flared head of his cock is still inside. “You’ve been so good, puppy. You deserve this,” he says, gentle, even as he jams forward into Tony’s body and sets up a pounding rhythm.

Tony’s groan is low and slow and vibrating and they go on for several minutes that way, Peter leveraging just enough of his strength to keep Tony in the here and now, without doing any permanent damage. The man is extra tight around him because he is so rarely topped and Peter thinks that’s part of what makes it so special. Peter tells Tony he doesn’t have to keep his hands in place, for selfish reasons; he wants to manhandle those still-strong biceps, use them as a convenient grip to keep up the punishing pace. Anywhere Peter can get leverage to strip his cock in and out of Tony’s hot little hole, he tries, until they’re both panting brokenly.

He only pulls out to pour a little extra oil over himself and his hand, and then goes back to railing his immobilized partner, desperate to get them both off. He leaves the extra oil on his hand and reaches past Tony’s right hip to give him something to thrust into. Tony gasps and swears, loses his grip on the stool he’d been bracing against and sends it spinning across the lab floor. Instead, Tony is forced to nearly bend in half and grab his own knees just for something to hold onto, and this forces his prostate up against Peter’s raucous will.

Peter strains his wrist trying to keep hold of Tony’s cock in this new position, but it’s a good kind of hurt, especially coupled with the effect the changed angle has on his own pleasure, and it’s  _fuck_ \- he can’t help it. He comes, hips pressing deep and keeping him right up against that sweet spot, and he’s lucky that Tony enjoys being marked up so much (especially from the inside) because the feeling of Peter getting off really does it for the older man and he comes too, pearly release spattering and branching out like webs on the lab floor.

After they’ve both gone soft and caught their breath, Peter lets Tony drip, open and empty for a moment, before he checks how much the webs sticking his love’s feet to the floor have loosened with their lovemaking. The answer is quite a bit, and a splash of the vinegar from the lunch tray dissolves them the rest of the way.

Peter bundles Tony into the throw blanket from the lab couch, and tosses a command to FRIDAY as they head toward the elevator. They need to get upstairs and to the bath ASAP.

“Fri? Protocol Five for now; back to business as usual.”

“Aye aye, sir!”


	4. Ginger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content: breeding kink and dirty talk like whoa, with a vague mpreg-or-nah ending. Also contains lots of come, daddy kink, and THIS IS YOUR WARNING background mentions of Stucky and HYDRA and all the Barnes-centric whump/non-con that implies; stay safe, folks.

New Year’s Eve is normally a big to-do when it comes to Tony Stark, but Peter hasn’t been feeling well, so they trade a wild night out for a wild night in.

Tony can drink champagne out of the bottle just as well at home as he can in public, so no biggie.

Peter, who has grown to quite like champagne in the months since his twenty-first birthday (and the occasional Avengers sitrep-turned-free-for-all, before that), abstains for the sake of his stomach.

He’s been feeling ill basically since they went out to that club a week and a half ago, and he’s sure he must have caught a bug from someone. It’s easy to do at a bar or on a crowded dancefloor. The blowjob in the bathroom alone had probably escalated his germ count exponentially, but it had been so worth it.

The only odd thing is, normally sickness doesn’t last long in Peter, due to his metabolism and powers. And, this thing… whatever it is, it comes and it goes. One minute he’s fine and the next he’s retching, which is just. Great.

Anyway, he’s glad their plans for the night are fairly tame; they can see Times Square from the full-length windows, made of one-way glass, in the new penthouse anyway, so what’s the point of shivering in the cold with a throng of other people?

Tony’s singing along to Bocelli in the kitchen, apron on and rolling out the last of the gingerbread cookie dough that they haven’t yet used. There’s a fire in the ultra-modern grate near the couch, and Peter is only separated from its warmth by a few feet and a pane of glass, so he snuggles down into the velvet of the backless sofa and lets his love’s strong voice flow over him as it flows over the Italian lyrics. He dozes.

\---

And he dreams:

It’s spring and it’s warm.

The sky is cloudless and he hears children laughing. There are tables and bright yellow and pink and green streamers everywhere. There’s a silver, glittering banner that reads, “Happy Birthday Maria and Morgan!”

Clearly Tony has gone all out as he is wont to do, when it comes to the twins that he shares with Pepper and May, and there are attractions sprinkled all over Central Park. And the flowers, god, they’re everywhere.

The only thing there might be more of, is private security.

Peter supposes it helps that most of the Avengers are here, too. Natasha, for instance, is headed this way. Pete leans back into a warmth that he assumes is Tony, in the way that one assumes things in dreams, and waits for her.

“Oh,  _Petya_ ,” Natasha says, as she pours herself like smoke into the lounge chair next to his. “Are you enjoying watching the children?”

“Of course,” he answers easily, and sips at a lemon-and-gingerade. “Let me guess, you’re here to ruin it for me? What will you say now… hmmm, maybe ‘for no money down and payments the rest of your life, you too can have your own boiling cesspool of disease’, is that it?”

“How can it be a cesspool if it’s boiling?” a familiar voice gravels in his ear, pulling him back against the famous chest of Tony Stark.

Peter grins in his sleep, but the voice isn’t done. A hand smooths over his belly, which he’s just now realizing is a bit rounded.

“Besides, isn’t one spawn enough for you?”

\---

Peter wakes with a start, to see Tony standing over him. The older man hushes him and pushes him back down on the sofa, apologetic.

“Sorry, sweetheart, I didn’t mean to wake you. I was just covering you with the blanket,” he says.

“What time issit?” Peter slurs, groggy.

“Not even close to midnight,” Tony snorts. “…but the cookies are almost cooled, if you wanna help me decorate?”

Peter moans and groans, pushing the windowpane-patterned throw blanket off. “M’too hot.”

“Sorry, love. The oven’s off now, so it should cool down fast. FRIDAY, up the air circulation quotient?”

“Yes, boss,” Fri intones.

Tony goes to the kitchen and gives Peter a moment to just be fussy without expectation, which Pete is grateful for. When the other man comes back, he offers Peter a mug that looks to be half ginger tea, for his stomach, and half almond milk, so it won’t be too hot and contribute to his fever. Peter’s touched by that.

Touched, not devastated. So, why the fuck is he tearing up?

“Hey, hey, hey,” Tony soothes, nudging Peter into a sitting position so he can slide in behind him. Peter leans back against his chest and tries to get his emotions in check. “I’m sorry you don’t feel good, baby.”

“Don’t call me ‘baby’ right now,” Peter mutters, still off-kilter.

Tony lets him take a sip of his milky tea before he asks, “Okay… why not?”

“Because I just dreamed I was knocked up, and it’s weird,” he grumbles in reply.

Tony chuckles a bit and smooths Peter’s curls back from his forehead with his left hand as Peter takes another sip of his drink. “Oh, yeah? And who knocked you up, huh?” he asks smugly.

The tea’s helping and Peter’s awake enough to quip solemnly, “I think it must have been Steve.”

“You little mother _fucker_ -”

“No,” Peter interrupts Tony’s mock-outrage, “…I just said, the motherfucker was  _Steve_. Are you deaf?”

Tony slides from behind his back and maneuvers himself on top of Peter, to start tickling. “You are sooo going to pay for that, you sick little fuck. You think you could even take Steve? You wanna see what the serum gave him to match with that god-given and god- _forsaken_  sense of self-righteousness, you twinky little size-queen, huh?” he goads.

When he’s caught his breath from laughing, Peter quirks both eyebrows for effect and asks, “Are you saying Cap has BDE? And are you like… self-cuckolding right now, because you know. Uh. That’s hot, but it’s also pretty weird.”

Tony leans back, looking like he’s wondering the same thing, but then shrugs, “Hot and Pretty Weird could be the title to the second volume of my autobiography. Also, I’ve been told I could stand to be taken down a peg or two.”

“You? Never,” Peter drawls, but he slides a hand under Tony’s shirt, all the same, to grip at the nano-basket and reactor housing in the man’s chest. He digs his nails in around the edges and pulls gently just to hear the choking sound Tony makes into the resulting kiss. Let it never be said that Peter was afraid of speaking truth to power.

The kiss becomes retribution in a series of bites all over Peter’s lips and chin and jaw, bites that are then soothed with Tony’s tongue, until the lower half of Peter’s face is a mess of saliva. Tony draws back, self-satisfied, but Peter just wipes at his face with his sleeve, grins, and breathes, “Who’s sick now?”

Tony groans, realizing that he’s definitely on his way to contracting whatever it is Peter’s got, but then he perks up and states, “Now we both have excuses to stay home and screw, huh?”

Peter closes his eyes and throws his left arm over them, letting his right hand come up and hang onto the waistband of Tony’s jeans as the other man pulls his own shirt over his head. “Yeah,” he says, a little tired still. He adds, “We gotta do it right here, though, daddy. M’exhausted.”

“Oh, so we’re back to ‘daddy’, now, are we?” Tony teases as he gets up to shuck off his jeans, letting Peter’s hand drop. Once the jeans are off, all Tony’s got left are his watch and his metal bracelet.

Peter lifts his hips up so he can get out of his own sweatpants, and has a much easier time of it. He hadn’t bothered with underwear and Tony looks gratified at that. “Hey, you said hot and pretty weird was fine. What’s weirder than me dreaming about having your baby and then waking up to  _be_ your baby?”

Tony seems unconcerned, and it’s this that Peter loves about being a little older now. Sure, the mischief and taboo nature of their dynamic when Peter had been eighteen was thrilling at times, but he’d never trade away what they have now: the comfortable confidence of two people that know each other’s sickest thoughts but trust each other enough to always know the line between fantasy and reality. It’s fucking hot as hell, and Peter loves it. He loves Tony. He loves himself, too, finally. It’s ace and he feels like he can handle anything. Hell and high water just leave him hot and wet these days.

“I’ll tell you something weirder, baby boy. Going back to what we were saying earlier, I dunno if you could take Steve. I mean, Barnes can, ‘cause they’re the same and I’m sure he gives as good as he gets if you catch my meaning, but you? Nah, you’d break. Barnes learned how to take monster cock from HYDRA, and I just don’t think you’re up to it. I go too easy on you.”

Peter gasps, not sure if he wants to puke or palm himself. “Tony, you can’t fucking say that, that’s awful! He’s your friend now, you can’t joke about him getting gang-raped by HYDRA, you dick!”

Tony just smirks, wraps a hand around Peter’s cock, which is embarrassingly hard and says, “Can’t I? He’s not here, you know I would never. Plus, it’s just a fantasy… in real life, I helped make it so HYDRA was the one who got fucked in the ass, you remember? Trash heap. Done and dusted. Can’t hurt anyone, anymore.”

“But still-” Peter sputters.

“You wanna safeword out? Does it turn you off, picturing that long, dark hair fluttering as his body gets pushed forward and back? I bet Cap is  _oh so understanding_ , helps him relive it, helps him overwrite the memories with better ones… ooooh, what if ‘Hail, HYDRA’ is their safe-phrase?”

“Guh,” Peter says, tasting ginger and fire as he tries to reconcile the wrongness of the words with the rightness of the friction caused by Tony’s calluses gripping his erection. “You are the actual  _worst_.”

Tony ignores him in the absence of any real protests and settles down to straddle Peter, changing tactics to say, “Or maybe you wish it was you, huh baby? Maybe they’d set you up with different agents and keep you pregnant for  _decades_ , keep you pumping out little  _assets_  with half spider genes to take over the free world.”

“Oh my god, you are fucking  _sick_ , you need to stop, stop right now,” Peter chants, disbelieving.

Tony lets go of him, but pushes Peter’s shirt, the last item of clothing between them, all the way up past the pectorals. “Do you mean stop, like  _stop_ , like tap-tap-tap, I’m out? Or do you mean stop like you want me to play with your pretty little tits right now?”

Peter arches his neck back, trying and failing to hate himself for it. He covers his eyes with his hands, elbows akimbo, to gut out, “The second one, so help me Jesus.”

“That’s what I thought,” Tony mutters, sliding down with his balls bumping over Peter’s leg to get at the younger man’s chest and belly. He plants kisses all over and scrapes at Peter’s nipples and it’s enough for a while. Peter’s just about to beg for more when Tony sinks his mouth around his cock and after thirty seconds of that,  _fuck_ , he might as well be on Mars.

If this does happen to be Peter’s last orgasm of the year, then it’s a damn good one.

(Spoiler alert; it’s not.)

He thinks Tony is swallowing his come, but the joke’s on him because as soon as his aftershocks are over, Peter is turned over on his belly and Tony pushes the mess into and over his hole and it’s dirty as hell, the whole scene, but Peter couldn’t be more grateful. The salacious nature of everything they’re doing has successfully knocked the sunny, idyllic, and infinitely unsettling dream out of his mind, for now.

Tony’s content to riff off it, though he does so in a way that only barely connects the two ideas, saying, “Pete, baby, we gotta be careful or your sloppy wet hole is gonna drip and ruin this couch. Don’t make daddy have to buy a new one, okay? I mean, I will if it comes to that, but I’d rather keep this one in memory of the night daddy got you knocked up, you know? It’ll be special that way.”

Peter just bites into his own wrist, not knowing what to say and knowing he doesn’t want Tony to stop talking.

“Okay, so we’re gonna be careful, alright my good boy? You’re gonna keep all the come and spit and slick inside? Don’t spill, okay, cause even if we forget about the couch, I still want all the seed to stay and catch.”

Peter stops biting and nods shakily, knows from the heat on the back of his neck that Tony is watching carefully to make sure he’s okay with all this. At his confirmation, Tony starts fingering him, scooping and pushing the mess back inside Peter with two fingers. They’re both quiet as Peter gets thoroughly stretched, but soon Peter can’t help letting out little whines as Tony starts playing meanly with the rim of his hole. Tony stops and does something that makes a clinking sound, before he disgustingly runs his fingers through Peter’s hair to get a good grip and wipe his fingers off in one smooth action. Peter, mortified, tries to swallow as his head gets forced back a little, and then he sees what made the sound because Tony presses his watch to Peter’s lips and says, “Here, does baby need something for his oral fixation?”

Christ, but Peter opens to accept the watch, tasting metal and glass and wondering how many thousands of dollars he’s tonguing right now. Tony smirks like he’s reading his thoughts, then softens and kneels to take the watch back out. He asks, “You still okay, sweetness?” as he smooths his clean hand over Peter’s shoulders and neck, checking for undue tension there.

Peter breathes, “M’fine. This is really off the wall, but I’m here for it. S’good. I love you.” He opens his mouth for the watch again, and Tony carefully bundles it up at the band so it’ll be small enough and less likely to scrape painfully on Peter’s tongue, before he gives it back.

Tony plants four kisses at Peter’s wrist, elbow, bicep, and shoulder respectively (meaning: I love you, too) then manhandles him up to standing and up again into his arms, bridal style. As he carries Peter into the bedroom, he remarks, “Lucky you’re light; I’m getting too old for this.”

Peter hums around the watch, and presses his tongue against it so it doesn’t rattle his skull too much when he hits the mattress with a  _thump_. Tony scoots in between his legs and smooths his thumbs over Peter’s hipbones before he lifts his hands and pulls at his bracelet to activate the nanobots that form the Iron Butler hand. As the thing flies over to the nightstand to get lube, presumably, Peter wonders at why Tony couldn’t have gotten it himself. His lover must see the question in his eyes because he pulls at Peter’s jaw to remove the watch and flings it to the side for it to get lost in the sheets and pillows.

“What?” he asks, leaning forward to blow a raspberry at the corner of Peter’s jaw afterward.

“Why couldn’t you have gotten the lube yourself? Also, why did we leave the couch?”

Tony plants his hands at either side of Peter’s face and leans all the way over to get in his grille. “You questioning me, kid?”

Peter sticks his tongue out, bratty, so Tony feints like he’s going to bite it off, incisors snapping together.

The Iron Butler hand drops the tube of lube next to Peter’s thigh and then makes like it’s going to melt around back into the bangle around Tony’s wrist but the older man sits up and nudges the mass away, flicking his fingers back at the nightstand to spit, “Plug too, biggest one.”

Peter sputters at that, and decides maybe he ought to straighten up and fly right.

Tony sighs, and says (as if he hadn’t planned the whole speech ahead of time), “One,  _I’m_  not leaving from between your legs until you’re full up with my progeny, so I needed help with the lube situation. Two,  _you’re_  not leaving or moving anywhere until, well, see point one.”

Peter blows out a breath and promptly belies his seconds-old resolution to be good and sweet by wise-cracking, “Well, fuck, you better get on with it then. At your age, you’re liable to croak before we get there, daddy.”

That surprises a dark laugh out of Tony, but he takes the hint and pours lube over himself and then pets at the entrance to Peter’s body with the remnants before he puts the younger man’s legs over his shoulder and hip. Tony lines up and snaps forward, dragging a moan out of Peter’s chest. The rhythm he sets up is punishing and good and raw, and Peter wonders if he’s being paid back for the way he’d topped Tony in the lab last week, taking advantage of the man’s sticky predicament with the web fluid.

The nano-hand must have procured a plug from the nightstand because the bangle on Tony’s right wrist is heavy with tech again where it bangs against Peter’s leg on every thrust. Tony has circumnavigated that same leg to give Peter his right hand to push into, and Peter’s immensely grateful, but  _fuck_ , this isn’t going to last long.

Tony must feel the same way because his mouth starts running wild again, wanting to engage Peter’s brain in their lovemaking too, and it’s somehow sweet and hot and wrong and degrading all at once. “Look at you, so slim and trim and flexible. Can’t wait to watch you get all sleepy and soft and bloated with my baby. You’re gonna be so round and perfect and  _mine._ Everyone will know. I might be tempted to let you go outside and leave the apartment, just for that, because people will whisper, ‘Isn’t that Peter Parker? Didn’t he invent some cool shit, once?’ and whomever they’re with will say, sadly, ‘Yeah, but he’s just Tony Stark’s little breeding bitch, now, what a shame’….”

Peter comes, somewhere between ‘breeding’ and ‘bitch’ and he knows without a shadow of a doubt that he’s never gonna live that down, so he makes sure he clenches and milks Tony’s cock for all he’s worth. He’s determined to take his partner down with him, at the very least.

“Son of a  _gun_ -”

And Peter laughs for long minutes, waiting for Tony to quit sounding like he’s actually fucking dying.

Talk about a win-win.

\---

And later, of course, there’s baths and more milky tea and cuddles. If you’re so inclined maybe they do have a kid or maybe they don't, but that’s not what you  _sinners_  are here for, is it?


End file.
